


x+y=happiness

by LeighKelly



Series: NYU!verse [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 22:38:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4804793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeighKelly/pseuds/LeighKelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During their first year of college, Brittany and Santana struggle to adjust to both their busy schedules and life as newlyweds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	x+y=happiness

The first thing Brittany notices, when she walks into the Starbucks on Washington Square Park is the unmistakeable clicking noise of metal on wood, a noise she’s very well accustomed to. Immediately, her eyes scan the room, and after barely ten seconds, she finds her wife in the corner, legs tucked up beneath her in a coveted plush chair, shock of nearly black hair fallen across her face, and a brow furrowed in deep concentration and frustration as she alternates her gaze between the computer screen and a stack of papers. With a frown, Brittany draws her attention to Santana’s hand, drumming furiously against the table, her wedding rings hitting the edge rhythmically, and the other guiding her eyes along the pages she’s engrossed in. When Brittany had left for class early that morning, Santana had only gone to bed maybe two hours before, and judging by the exhaustion on her face, exhaustion that was apparent to her from across the room, she probably hadn’t gotten much more sleep after she’d gone. Torn between going immediately to Santana to kiss her, and coming over with a hot cup of coffee and something to eat (because she knows Santana, she knows that she’s been so engrossed in her work that she probably hasn’t eaten all day), Brittany chooses the latter. After swiping her NYU ID and accepting two cups of coffee, a banana, and a chocolate croissant, she makes her way back to Santana, only noticing then, when she’s less hunched over, where the Courant Institute of Mathematical Sciences sweatshirt she’d looked for to throw on that morning had gone to.

“Well  _there’s_ my lost sweatshirt.” Brittany teases, and Santana jerks her head up from her work, the perfect combination of sheepishness and elation coloring her face. “Oh, and look, I found my wifey too.”

“Britt!” Santana drops her pen and her eyes turn apologetic when Brittany gives her a soft, lingering kiss on the lips. “I didn’t-I was going to come surprise you with coffee after class, and _God,_ where did the time even go today? I’m sorry.”

“Hey, scoot over.” She sheds her jacket and fits herself into the oversized chair, where Santana’s body, so tightly strung from the stress of the end of the semester, relaxes almost immediately when she curls into her wife, and lets those magic, soothing fingers trail up and down her arm. “Now I got to surprise you instead, totally better.”

“You know you’re the greatest wife to ever exist, right?”

“Duh.” Brittany teases, while Santana reaches for her new cup of coffee. “I mean, actually, one of, obviously, because if x minus y equals happiness, and x is your stress level, and I’m y, then I have to be the greatest possible number to plug in,  _but-_ ”

“Britt, I love you, but you’re gonna have to break that down for the person who’s brain is currently over-saturated with studies of sociological bodily rituals.”

“Basically, what I’m saying, is that we make each other happy. When x is  _my_ stress level, then y is _you,_ then you’re the one who raises it up super high, like last week, when you brought me dinner every night while I was in the lab late, and tucked Dots and that sweet note with all kinds of hearts into my bag when I had to explain my code to all those old guys.”

“I’m sort of following but…” Santana tries not to wrinkle her nose in confusion, because she knows what Brittany is saying definitely makes total sense, but sometimes, when it comes to math stuff, she needs a little further explanation.

“I’m just saying we’re  _both_ the best wives to each other, but sometimes one of us puts in even more effort, and takes care of the other just a little more if the other one needs it.”

“There’s math for everything, isn’t there?” Santana asks, grinning dopily at Brittany.

“Obviously. They totally weren’t kidding in second grade when they told us that math matters. But that equation is especially important.”

“Well, I’m glad you understand it then. Good thing you’ve got a super computer in your head.”

“You get it too.” Brittany ducks her head a little, biting her lip at Santana’s compliment. “Just in a different way. How is your paper going?”

“Brutal. My brain feels like it’s going to explode, and I  _really_ don’t want to watch that weird 70’s porn again for more research.”

“That porn was totally gross.” She shakes her head in disgust.

“Yeah, the actual worst. Second actual worst, maybe, after writing this paper. Remind me again why I picked Gallatin over Tisch, and why I chose to take this class/“

“Because you’re awesome, and even though you want to perform, you also wanted to diversify your education in case you changed your mind when it’s time for us to start a family.” Brittany tells her, and Santana feels the flutter in her heart at the word  _family,_ something she once thought would never happen for her an actual reality, somewhere in the foreseeable future. “What?”

“What, what?”

“You’re just grinning a lot.”

“Oh, am I?” Santana’s ears burn, because how is it still possible that Brittany has this effect on her? “I think I’m just loopy from all of the words I’ve had to digest.”

“Okay, listen.” Brittany leans over to close Santana’s computer. “I know you’ve got a ton of work to get done, but I also think you need a little break from it. You need to breathe some fresh air, and maybe un-hunch your spine for awhile, before it gets stuck like that, and we can’t dance anymore. Even more importantly, I can’t have your brain explode, you know I’m really not good at cleaning up big messes.”

“You’re right, Britt.” Santana doesn’t argue, because a little time away will be good, she knows it, she knows that she’s been in Starbucks since eight o'clock in the morning (she works better with the noise around her, really, than alone in their little apartment), and she knows that she stopped being productive and started to get antsy and irritated about an hour ago.

“Eat this.” She offers the croissant, and shakes her head at Santana’s silent offer to share. “Then we’ll go make fun of tourists in the park, and I’ll make dinner.”

“By make dinner, do you mean call Chipotle and get delivery?”

“Or do it online, whichever.” Brittany shrugs. “ _Not_ entirely my fault we actually don’t have anything that can even be used for cooking. Unless you want me to boil water for pasta in the coffee pot. But that was a  _disaster_ last time I tried it, and we had to get a new one.”

"I appreciated the effort though.” Santana steals another kiss, and plays with Brittany’s fingers. “Winter break, we’ll get all those wedding gifts that are at your parents’ house, and we’ll work on making our apartment more of a grown up place to live. Except for maybe the wok your Aunt Judy gave us, we could probably leave that. I don’t really see us taking up Chinese cooking.”

“We could totally send it to Tina.”  

“Please, act like she doesn’t already have one.” Santana laughs, dropping croissant flakes all down the front of the grey and violet sweatshirt.

“Hot.“ Brittany sweeps them away with her hand, then brushes off the ones that stick to her lips.

"You know it, baby.”

They sit for a little while longer, Brittany’s hand snaking it’s way under Santana’s layers of clothing to drag over her lower back, while she talks about her seminar class, and the professor’s misunderstanding of some complex theorem that Santana wishes  _she_ could understand. While Brittany tosses their trash, Santana packs up her things, and still stares at Brittany with wonderment when she insists on carrying the heavy bag (“ _this_ will just hunch your spine more,” she argues). Once their warm clothes are on, Santana tenderly adjusting Brittany’s scarf in the process, they clasp gloved hands and make their way out into the chilly late fall evening. It’s such a different experience than either of them had the first time they’d gone to college separately, with even finals and late night of molecular physics seeming far more tolerable when they get to climb into bed together at night, or lay with feet tangled up on the couch of the apartment that Brittany’s genius grant paid for, text books between them. This isn’t them trying to figure things out when everything feels confusing, this is them, as the  _Pierce-Lopezes,_ building the rest of their future.

Rather than wait for delivery, because she can see how fast Santana is fading, even if she won’t admit her exhaustion, and will probably pass out before she can eat some real food, Brittany suggests that they stop and grab burgers. Santana just about curls up in the booth beside Brittany, resting her head on her wife’s shoulder, humming tired acknowledgments, rather than really engaging in conversation. Once they’ve eaten, Santana nearly stumbles out of the booth, and Brittany purses her lips in concern, really,  _really_ hating when Santana doesn’t sleep, because finals or not, it’s clear she needs it, before wrapping an arm around her waist and holding her close as they walk the two blocks to Washington Square Village. Waving to the security guard in the lobby, they make it up to their apartment, and Santana doesn’t even take her coat off, before flopping down in the chaise.

“I still have so much to  _do.”_ Santana groans, her whiny, tired voice in full force.

“Honey.” Brittany softens hers, foremost, because she thinks Santana is really cute, even when she’s cranky, but also because she knows it’s the fastest way to get Santana to listen to her. “Do you really think you can sit down and work on a paper tonight? Your mind is so tired, you forgot how to unzip your coat.”

“I can unzip my coat.” She protests, sliding down the zipper, but still not taking her arms out of the sleeves.

“Okay, you’re right, I’m sorry. B-ut, I still think it’s a good idea for you to get some rest. I slept by myself almost all last night, and I would  _love_ to have my awesome wife with me tonight.” Brittany tries instead. “ _Please?”_

“Ugh, it’s like 6:45. We can’t go to bed right now.”

“No, but I can join you there, and we can watch a movie, and then tomorrow, we can get up early and go to the library, because I have a bunch of stuff to do too.”

Santana just nods a little, because really, as much as she needs to do, she knows she won’t really get anything done when her eyes feel swollen and her head hurts a little from all the coffee she drank all day. While Brittany goes to the bedroom to change, Santana just wriggles out of her coat and kicks her shoes off, before pulling her pants off, and settling back into the pillows in just Brittany’s sweatshirt and her panties. Brittany smiles adoringly when she comes back in, finding Santana like that, and she grabs a blanket to tuck around them both, before joining Santana in the seat. It doesn’t take long before Santana has her head on Brittany’s chest, and her arm draped over her stomach, letting Brittany hold her close, letting more of the stress of her day of schoolwork seep out of her. Unsurprisingly to Brittany, before they’re a half an hour into  _Bridget Jones’ Diary_ (for the two-hundredth time, probably), Santana is snoring lightly against her, and she runs her hand up and down her side, before kissing the top of her head, and reaching carefully for the textbook she’d slipped onto the table beside them for that very reason.

“I love you, Santana Pierce-Lopez.” She whispers, figuring she’ll sleep right here later, if she needs to, lest Santana decide moving to bed is the perfect time to break out her laptop and write a few sleep deprived pages that she’ll inevitably erase in the morning, because that’s what she tends to do. “Sweet dreams.”


End file.
